Call of Duty: Fire in the Shadows
by Zefram C. Slander
Summary: The battles depicted in the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are only a small slice of a world set aflame by conflict. In Fire in the Shadows, readers will experience the gritty action and drama of the "Shadow War" a devastating battle between well equipped mercenaries and the madmen that Makarov has trained to spawn endless conflict in the world's perennial hotspots.


A/N: This is a Call of Duty: Modern Warfare fan fiction. I realize that this franchise is not known for rich characterization, nor are its fans known for having any considerable intellectual depth. Nevertheless, the fact Call of Duty is enjoyed by such a wide variety of people, including me, indicates to me that these perceptions (especially the latter) are likely not entirely correct. It is my fond hope that other fans of Call of Duty will find this and enjoy it, and that this fiction improves the gaming community's perception of the only somewhat deservingly maligned Call of Duty fan base. This fiction employs primarily original characters, but does reference the characters created by Infinity Ward.

Good Hunting,

CmdrSlander

* * *

Call of Duty: Fire in the Shadows By CmdrSlander

**Chapter 1: Search & Destroy**

Roland hated Africa, and with every new insect that schooled around him, his hatred only grew. He knew that the turbulent continent was going to his primary area of operations when he signed up with Redhawk Consolidated Security Solutions, but had told himself that the six figure income promised was worth almost any ordeal. He was wrong. His morally ambiguous monetary gains simply piled up in his bank account in the States, which given the war that had engulfed his homeland, made them as unreachable as the Andromeda Galaxy. The only things Roland had gained that were not inaccessible at the moment were experience, some new scars, and a good deal of respect for the people that managed to make Africa their home.

The only thing that came close to bothering him as much as the insect life was the quality of the roads, the pockmarked moonscapes that passed for paved streets not only made travel a jarring experience but also provided many depressions for hiding IEDs. Roland was acutely aware of this fact as he scanned the onrushing pavement from his station on the gun turret of Redhawk's Toyota Hi-Lux derived technical vehicle. Roland's headset crackled to life as the truck crested a hill and began its descent toward a decent-sized cluster of sand colored colonial era buildings abutting the calm blue sea.

"Were coming up on the target area now. Can't see any trouble from where I'm sitting, what have you got?" The technical's driver questioned.

Roland adjusted his gaze and scrutinized the buildings. Aside from the occasional listless gull and tattered flag shifting the stale air, nothing could been seen moving.

Roland took one hand off the trigger mechanism of the KORD HMG and touched it to the headset in his right ear.

"….got nothing. Repeat: no targets." He responded.

"Good, we'll be home for dinner." Stated a voice that was far too clear to have come through his headset.

Roland angled his head toward a ghillie-suited man seated in the truck bed. The man in question, Rick Presper, was, naturally, the squad's marksman. Roland was about to make a sarcastic comment about the quality of the food available at the base and how he hoped the mission would run long, but was cut off by the man seated on the other side of the truck's bed, facing Rick. The new participant in the conversation was Jack Maturin, a CQB specialist with a fondness for automatic shotguns, as evidenced by the AA12 resting in his lap.

"To hell with that…" Jack began "…if this really is a milk run then we just got paid 200 grand to walk into a town unopposed, blow up some crates, and walk back out. That's worth celebrating. I know a bar 'bout 15 kilometers east…"

"Fine by me." Roland responded. Rick simply nodded.

The technical groaned to a halt on the edge of the small coastal settlement.

"Alright, pile out… deserted or not we need a plan for clearing this town." The driver ordered.

Rick opened that lift gate of the technical and and exited, Jack simply climbed over the side of the truck bed, his boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. Roland dismounted his turret and followed Jack over the side. The truck's driver (and the squad's leader), Owen Pritchard, was already out of the cab and using his bowie knife to make a simplistic map of town in the dust. Pritchard had been a merc for the last 20 years, and he had a disconcertingly casual attitude towards the job. He wore blue jeans and a Hawaiian shirt, only the armor plate carrying tactical vest and knee guards he grudgingly sported marked him as a combatant. Pritchard's old breed 'professional adventurer' appearance was rounded out by 60 year old Browning Hi Power in a battered hip holster and the unfiltered cigarette dangling from his mouth.

The rest of the squad gathered around Pritchard's map. Pritchard look up at them, flicked his cigarette away and began speaking.

"Right then, there's two targets - crates containing ordinance that our employer does not want the local militia to have - we can torch the crates with this baby…." Pritchard ambled over to the truck and grabbed a suitcase lined with plastic explosives from the passenger seat. "…or we can kill all the militiamen, allowing our employer to extract the crates for disposal at his - or her - leisure." Pritchard punctuated his introduction of the 'kill them all' option by conspicuously removing his war weary M60 LMG from its place of honor on a rack behind the seats in the technical's cab.

He set down the bomb and the LMG next to the map, picked up his knife and pointed at two X's on the crude rendering of the town. "Those are our targets. If the militiamen didn't fly the coop then they're probably going to be clustered up around them. We'll break into two teams, Roland, go with Rick and cover him, Rick, I want you scoped up and watching Jack and I as we move in on bomb site A. If things really go tango-uniform then we can call in the VTOL for support and or evac, but missiles and aviation fuel are expensive and come right out of our pay, so try and avoid screwing it up that much. Got it?"

"Got it." The three other mercs responded.

Owen clipped the bomb to his tactical vest's webbing, Jack loaded his shotgun, Rick picked up his scoped M14 EBR, and Roland hammered home a full mag of .45 ACP rounds into his H&K UMP.

Jack and Owen headed down an alley that lead to the bomb site, while Roland and Rick made their way to a run down two story building with an acceptable view of the other team's route.

Rick unceremoniously knocked a withered potted plant off the window sill and deployed his M14's bipod. He panned around the desolate town, following Jack and Owen as they moved toward the bomb site with Jack on point, his AA12 sweeping the landscape ahead of them, ready to fire the moment a target appeared. Roland covered the alleyway and stairs that led to the overwatch position, his gaze pointed away from the intensely focused marksman.

"What do you see?" Owen asked Rick over the radio.

He did not receive a response.

"Repeat: What do you see? Do you have us in sight?"

Roland turned toward Rick, planning to remind the marksman to turn his headset on. When his eyes landed on Rick, Roland found him collapsed in a pool of his own blood, his rifle leaning unattended against the window sill.

"What the hell! Rick! Rick what hit you?" Roland demanded.

A suppressed pistol shot zipped over Roland's shoulder as he bent over to check for Rick for a pulse. A lone enemy sprinted out of the shadows in the far corner of the room, two more shots whizzed through the air, nearly missing Roland and embedding themselves in the masonry behind him. The enemy ran towards him, crimson stained combat knife drawn, a bloodthirsty grin spreading across his dirty, somewhat emaciated face. Roland fired a burst from his UMP, two rounds caught the enemy in the chest. Operating purely on adrenaline, the wounded enemy lunged at Roland with his knife. Instinctively, Roland took his left hand off the hand guard of his UMP, raised his arm and blocked the enraged enemy's lunge. With his breath knocked out him the enemy stumbled backwards, Roland fired a quick burst from his UMP, finishing him off.

Roland scanned the room, looking for any more foes in the shadows, finding none, as a formality, he then checked Rick for a pulse, and in that endeavor came up empty as well. He did discover that the enemy had cut Rick's throat while covering his mouth, a perfectly executed, practically silent kill. Militiamen did not have that level of training, not usually. Roland activated his headset:

"Rick is down, KIA. I took down that militiaman that got him, but he was well trained - until the thrill of the fight got the better of him - watch out though, these guys aren't pushovers."

"Crap, alright…" Owen responded "…leave him for now, we can make arrangements for that after we clear this place out. For now, link up with us."

Roland climbed down a ladder on the side of the building and headed for Owen and Jack, who were waiting behind a low wall near the seemingly deserted town's market. The colorful awnings of the market stalls whipped back and forth as the wind from the sea began to pick up. Roland moved from cover to cover, highly conscious of snipers and/or more uncharacteristically stealthy militiamen. Finally, Roland slipped into cover next to his surviving comrades.

"No sign of other enemies…" Owen reported.

"The bomb site is just a few yards that-a-way." Jack added, pointing to a cluster of gray-green crates in a plaza adjacent to the market.

"These bastards seem to favor stealth, its a safe bet they have snipers covering the crate. We ought to cross to it in a loose formation. Not too tight, don't give them an opportunity to get two of us in one shot, but not so far apart either, or they'll pick us off one at a time."

"Agreed." Owen nodded. "Jack, go first, I'll follow, then Roland, maintain half-meter spacing and move quick."

"Got it." Jack vaulted over the low wall, Owen followed with his M60 at the ready, moving as fast as the hefty weapon allowed. Roland brought up the rear, scanning every window and corner for targets with his UMP.

Jack slid into cover behind the crates, followed soon after by the rest of the squad. Owen unhooked the bomb from his tactical webbing, flipped it open and began entering a series of numbers on the keypad within. Jack poked his head up over the crates and looked around.

"Maybe the guy that got Rick was the only one, just a watchman or something, 'cause I don't see anybody…."

A .30 caliber bullet slammed into Jack's skull, splattering blood and grey matter on Owen and Roland.

"Oh, hell…" Owen grumped. He stopped entering the activation sequence and raised him M60 over the cover. He pointed the LMG in the general direction of the sniper as indicated by the sound of the first shot. Unflinchingly, Owen held down the trigger, sending scores of high velocity 7.62x51mm rounds into the building which likely housed the sniper. The facade of the dilapidated structure crumbled away under the barrage. The M60 exhausted its supply of ammunition moments later. Roland took a chance and leaned out from one side of the cover, what he saw made his face go pale. He turned to Owen, who was getting back to work on the bomb, hoping that the sniper had at the very least been discouraged by his outburst.

"We have an enemy QRF inbound, five or six guys, AKs and RPGs! The gunfire must have put them on alert!"

"Keep 'em pinned as best you can! I'll get this thing rigged and we can make a break for it!"

An RPG sailed over their heads and destroyed a parked van several meters behind then, the wave of heat and pressure washed over Owen and Roland, causing both to flinch and press further into their cover. Moments later, the AK fire began, a cacophonous hail of 7.62x39mm rounds pinged off the pair's cover or buzzed over it.

Roland fired a spiteful burst from his UMP toward the QRF, their fire broke only for a moment as they reacted.

"These guys are well trained! They won't scatter! We need to call for evac!" Roland shouted.

"No, I almost have this!" Owen shouted back and returned to programming the bomb. "No, crap, crap, crap…"

"What?" Roland demanded.

"The detonator is screwed and this is a stable compound! No other way to set it off!"

"I'm calling for evac!"

Owen angrily chucked the bomb aside: "Alright, call it in!"

Roland pressed a finger to his headset: "Control, this is Seeker 1-1, we are in a critical situation and need immediate evac and air support!"

A calm voice responded: "Roger. Vectoring Osprey to your location. ETA seven minutes."

* * *

**Several Miles Away, Off the Coast of Somalia SS _Hypatia_, Redhawk CSS Command and Control Vessel**

Carine Harrington pushed open the Osprey's forward door and climbed inside. Sliding into the pilot's seat she put on her headset and began flipping banks of toggle switches to the ON position. The VTOL powered up, its turboprops whining to life as various cockpit displays flickered on. The massive propellers oriented themselves skyward and began to spin up. Carine ran through the checklist in her head:

"Fuel: Check… well enough for this mission anyway."

"Main Power: Check"

"Aux Power: Check"

"Weapons: Check"

…and so on.

"Ladyhawk 1, you have priority, launch when ready. Situation ground-side is critical." The voice in her headset informed her cooly.

"Copy. Launching now."

Carine edged the throttles forward gently, the massive propellors which they controlled increasing their RPM as she did so. As the throttles neared the firewall the Osprey's mass was overcome by the lift generated by the props and the bulbous craft rose skyward. The VTOL climbed clear of the ship and then began forward flight as the propellor pods angled down from their near-90 degree orientation.

"Osprey Away."

The VTOL dropped to slightly above wave top height and accelerated, its prop wash creating small, frothy storms behind it. At best speed, the Osprey hurtled towards the seaside settlement and the nearly overrun mercs.

"Rules of engagement?" Carine asked Control as the VTOL approached its target.

"Somalia is still classified as a failed state and under the UN Private Security Resolution of 2019 the entire area is a free fire zone. You are cleared to use all force necessary." Control responded formally.

* * *

**Somalia, Ground-side**

Roland reached for his last mag of .45 ACP ammunition, dropping the empty magazine free, he inserted the fresh mag and continued firing at the Somali Militia's QRF. Owen was down to his Browning Hi Power, occasionally, he would peak out of his cover and fire an aimed shot at the enemy, otherwise he relied on Roland to keep the militia suppressed.

The ground shuddered and a pang of hope flitted through Roland as he entertained the notion that it was the early arrival of their air support. Instead, an enemy BTR-90 rolled into the plaza from the left, smashing through a thin brick wall and opening fire on the stranded mercs.

"Don't worry! They want these crates as much as we do, they won't use HE rounds! The cover will hold!" Owen shouted.

The BTR began hammering away at the merc's cover with its coaxial machine gun. Aware that he had no defense against it, Roland focused instead on the militiamen. He sent a final burst from his UMP and then ducked back behind his cover, now completely out of ammunition.

"I don't know about you, son, but I'm not gonna die with any rounds left!" Owen shouted over the din of gunfire. He peaked over the cover and fired off a few shots from his BHP. "I can't get a good line on these guys…" Owen began to break cover, Roland hauled him back in.

"What the hell are you doing?" Roland questioned.

"I told you, I'm going to take some of these bastards with me and I can't do that from behind these crates!"

"The evac will be here, just hang on a second!"

"Dammit! Let me go… I want to… " Owen's protests were silenced as the battleship grey Osprey hovered into view. A missile lanced forth from the craft's ventral weapons pod and destroyed the BTR and collapsing the building next to it. As the Osprey began to descend, an RPG round was fired at it, Carine maneuvered the VTOL out of the way, just barely, and the RPG struck the building at the far end of the plaza, rending a large chunk of stone from its drab facade.

"Seeker 1-1 this is Ladyhawk, current LZ is too hot. Eliminate RPG troops and I can make a pickup!" Carine's startled voice filled Roland's headset.

"Negative, Negative, we are out of ammo and completely pinned!" Roland responded.

"Speak for yourself, Roland!" Owen Pritchard pushed Roland to the ground and vaulted over the crates. Adopting a perfect isosceles stance, as if he were a competitor at a peacetime shooting match, he raised his Browning Hi Power and shot the two rocket wielding militiamen in their heads. In the same instant he was shot several times in the chest, stomach, and legs by the remaining four enemies.

The Osprey descended to a meter above the ground and the back ramp lowered.

"You need to go now!" Carine shouted to Roland over the radio.

Crouching to avoid the storm of lead from the remaining enemies Roland quickly moved to the waiting Osprey and hauled himself into the cargo bay. A pack of fresh militiamen rounded a corner and swarmed into the plaza, one raised a RPG and prepared to fire right into the Osprey's interior.

"Duck!" Carine ordered.

Roland hit the deck as Carine sprang from her seat and drew a Smith & Wesson 627 revolver, firing several rounds into the Somali's chest. Carine slid back into the pilot's seat and mashed the button to close the rear ramp as she fire-walled the the throttles and sent the VTOL bolting skyward.

Roland picked himself up off the floor and managed to mutter "Good shooting" before passing out.


End file.
